


Solitude

by spookyawards_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Medium Length, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-09-28
Updated: 2003-09-28
Packaged: 2019-04-27 06:22:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14419482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyawards_archivist/pseuds/spookyawards_archivist
Summary: What's left when the most important person in your life is suddenly gone?





	Solitude

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Spooky Awards](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Spooky_Awards), and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [SpookyAwards' collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/spookyawards/profile).

 

Solitude

## Solitude

### by Mary Kleinsmith

Solitude  
By Mary Kleinsmith 

Category: MT, MA, MSR, SA, ST, and probably some others I've forgotten Rating: R, for intense situations, violence, and blood Spoilers: Nothing major, but takes place in late S6/early S7 Summary: What's left when the most important person in your life is suddenly gone? Archive: Yes, anywhere, especially MIJ, Ephemeral, and Gossamer Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, Skinner, and Maggie Scully belong to Chris Carter and 10-13, with magic added by David and Gillian. I'm only borrowing them. Feedback: Please, please, please, please, please, please, please? Author's Notes: Thanks to Sally, Mindy, and Laura for the beta, and to Laura for also keeping me going; you were always there when I needed somebody with whom to talk out a plot bunny. And to MacGyver, for inspiring the story; I freely confess certainly similarities to an episode of that series, which also doesn't belong to me. If you'd prefer to read this story all in one part, you can find it at my site at: <http://mary-buc252.freeservers.com>

Solitude  
By Mary Kleinsmith 

"Six nights in a row on this lousy stakeout, and still nothing. I'm telling you, Mulder, one more day . . . no, one more hour, and I'm going to lose my mind." 

"Maybe this will be the night, then. Anyway, I think you're just afraid to be alone in the same car with me." It was said in jest, but Scully knew there was a hint of truth there. Not in her fear, but the implied feelings. 

"Sure, Mulder. I just couldn't keep my hands off," she said as they drew to a stop and her partner shut off the engine. They were reasonably well hidden - easily dismissed as a parked or broken-down car. "It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't so damn cold," she commented. The temperature was reaching freezing the last few nights - very unusual for late spring. "So what do you say? I brought cards, we could play gin." 

"You know I can't win without cheating," he smiled, but there was no real humor in it. This tension had been growing each night of the stakeout. She knew Mulder was skirting closer and closer to a topic that she really didn't want to get into. Especially not on duty, and hopefully not at all. She should have known it couldn't stay buried forever. 

"We could talk. About us," he suggested in a quiet voice. Tentative. Almost frightened. 

"There's nothing to talk about, Mulder. Nothing at all." 

"But Scully . . ." 

"We've been together for seven years, Mulder. You're my best friend. You've been my best friend for a long time." 

"Maybe too long." 

Was she going to lose him over this? She knew the fear showed in her face. 

"Don't worry, I didn't mean it like that. Can I help it if I want more?" he asked quietly, knowing what her only answer would be. "And not from someone else - from you." 

"You want something I can't give, and I'm sorry. Look, we've always been there for each other. From the very beginning. Isn't that the most important thing?" 

Mulder turned from her, suddenly captivated by something outside his window. "You think you know me so well . . ." 

She felt the need to say something, but she didn't know what. 

"It's okay," he added. "No use ruining a beautiful friendship, right?" 

"Mulder . . ." 

"We'd better get back to work." He checked the clip in his gun, keeping his view on the building they were surveilling, but his voice was thick. With tears? Shed or repressed, she'd never know, and she knew he'd never tell her. Or let her see how she'd hurt him. She knew it, but what was there to do? Suddenly. . . 

"There he is." Mulder was out of the car almost before she heard him, leaving her behind by a further distance than she knew was safe. His left arm moved over his face as he ran, chasing the UNSUB. Wiping the snowflakes away, she told herself, knowing it was a lie. 

Pulling her gun, she tried to push their conversation from her mind; she couldn't have it distracting her. As she ran, she watched the door through which the suspect had retreated and had slammed behind him. 

The distance between them grew as she lost her footing on the icy pavement, her heels sliding for purchase, but Mulder plunged ahead blindly, finally reaching the door. 

He tried the knob, but it held, then spent only a moment studying the door before he tried to kick it in. And then, he made his biggest mistake. . . . The door gave away on the second impact of his foot, but instead of taking cover, he stood in the doorway. It was a target the UNSUB wasn't about to miss. 

"Mulder!" Scully screamed as she simultaneously heard the blast. Probably a .45, her mind registered automatically as Mulder fell backward. By the time she was at his side, his chest was covered in crimson. 

"Mulder!" He didn't respond. The radio they'd been issued for keeping in communication with the other agents was in her hand without conscious thought, her thumb pressing the "talk" button. "Unit Five, Officer down! Repeat, Officer Down!! Send an ambulance." 

"What's going on, Scully?" a disembodied voice said through the radio's speaker. 

"We spotted the suspect, who retreated back into the building. He . . . he shot Mulder. . ." 

"We're converging on your position as we speak," the disembodied voice of the agent in charge said. "Stay down, and don't get yourself shot tending to him." 

How dare he not think of Mulder at a time like this, she thought as she examined her partner's wound. He'd taken a blast right of center in his chest, probably not through the heart, but there could definitely be arterial or lung damage. So concentrated was she on him that she almost didn't hear the ambulance screech to a stop so very nearby. 

"C'mon, Mulder. You're going to be okay." 

Then his voice, a mere whisper, drew her vision to his face. "Scully . . ." 

"It's okay. You're not going anywhere." 

"Didn't see . . ." His lips grew slack, blood pouring from one corner of his mouth, as the paramedics pounded up beside her. They took over, and she let them, sitting back and watching, knowing his chances. Knowing that they weren't good. 

Before she knew it, they'd loaded Mulder onto a gurney, his face covered with an oxygen mask and heart-monitor leads securely fastened to his chest. 

"I'm going with you," she managed, running to catch up with them and forgetting, for the moment, the ASAC waiting for her report. 

"Stay out of the way," she was warned, and she complied, squeezing into a corner of the passenger compartment of the ambulance and making herself as small as possible, struggling to pay attention to all the medical information she was hearing. 

"BP 70 over 30." 

"Pulse is 140." 

"Respiration's barely noticeable, we're going to have to put in a tube." Then he shouted to the driver. "How far out from the hospital are we?" 

"Five minutes!" The driver called back through the small window. 

"Make it three, he's crashing on us!" 

The heart monitor went crazy at that moment, emitting a steady squeal that ripped right through her soul. One paramedic ripped the mask from his face, replacing it with an ambu bag which he used to push air into Mulder's lungs. In rhythm, the second began compressing Mulder's chest, fighting to maintain a hold when his clasped hands slid in the blood soaking the place where he needed to be. 

Mulder was dying. She prayed it wasn't true, but her rational mind couldn't deny the evidence of her senses. And the worst part was, it didn't have to happen. On any other day, it wouldn't have happened. But Mulder wasn't thinking straight. He was distracted, and careless, and it got him shot. 

"Because of me," she whispered for her own ears only. Not that anybody was paying attention to her at that moment anyway. 

She'd just closed her eyes, not able to watch any more, when the ambulance drew to a sudden stop and the doors were jerked open. She followed timidly, brushing aside a woman with a clipboard asking for information and staying at Mulder's side as they shoved the gurney into an Emergency Room cubicle. A nurse pulled the bloody shirt further aside as the doctor stepped up to examine the situation, snapping on sterile gloves as he did so. 

"Okay, stop," he instructed the paramedic performing CPR. He watched the monitor, but there was no change - just the horrible, screeching, squealing sound. She couldn't stand its accusatory tone, and covered her ears. 

"Charge the paddles to two-fifty joules," he ordered. A nurse handed him the paddles while another placed pads on Mulder's chest. 

"Charged." 

"Clear!" he ordered. She knew the procedures as well as if she'd been performing them herself, but she realized she'd never have been able to do so in this case. 

The cardiac monitor's display jumped, and there was a beep, but then it settled back to the same squeal. 

"Three hundred," he ordered, repeating the procedure with the same results. 

"Again!" 

They repeated the action, but after the agonizing-looking jolt, his body was frighteningly still. 

"Again!" 

And a fourth time, with the same results. A nurse handed him a large needle without having to be asked, and he administered the injection directly into Mulder's heart. 

"Once more!" he demanded when the drug was in. "Three hundred." 

The paddles were put into use one more time. The monitor continued to scream. 

"Again!" 

The action was repeated, but there was no new result. The doctor sighed heavily, setting them down. 

"Call it," he said, looking at the clock. "Time of death, nine fifty-three p.m." 

Her eyes clouded with tears, tears of guilt and loss, as she fled the room. She was out the ER entrance doors before anybody could say three words to her. 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

Skinner arrived at the hospital within ten minutes of the ambulance's arrival, having been notified by the members of the stakeout immediately. They'd managed to tell him of the injury, but he'd forgotten to charge his cell, and it had gone dead before he could get the details. Dammit, just once couldn't Mulder stay out of trouble? He'd been told Mulder was brought here, but hadn't been informed of any of the details of his injury. Probably slipped on the ice and sprained an ankle, he thought, marching through the waiting room. Surprisingly, nobody intercepted him as he made his way to the treatment areas. 

It wasn't hard to find his agent, despite the medical personnel swarming around him with somber faces. One nurse was removing a respirator from his throat. Removing it? 

Another nurse raised the sheet, and his stomach dropped as he realized that she intended to cover Mulder's face with it. He couldn't be . . . 

His thoughts were interrupted by a blip. Then another, that drew the nurse's attention. 

"Doctor!" she called, and a man at the back of the cubicle turned around to the sound of another blip. 

And another. 

And another. 

Finally, they settled into a steady rhythm, and a gasp game from the blue lips. 

"He's back!" the doctor exclaimed in shock. 

"But you already called it," the nurse exclaimed. "Five minutes ago!" 

"Well, tear up the paperwork, 'cause he's still with us." 

Skinner couldn't believe what he was hearing. Mulder had been dead, but was back. He'd been clinically dead for five minutes. Didn't that mean . . . 

The nurse voiced his thoughts. "There's going to be brain damage," she stated seriously, catching the doctor's eyes with her own, oblivious to the fact that somebody was listening in. 

"We'll just have to hope that it's not too severe," he said, but it was clear by his expression that he knew the likelihood of that was very small indeed. "Check his vitals, make sure he's stabilized, and let's get him to the OR. We don't need him bleeding out on us right after miraculously getting him back." 

"Will you do the surgery, Doctor?" one nurse asked. 

"No, this one is too touchy for me. Call Surgical and get their best person; I want him to have every chance we can give him." The nurse nodded and left, walking past Skinner as if he didn't exist. But then, she was definitely in a hurry. "As for me," the doctor said to the remaining staff, "I'd better go talk to the family." 

That was Skinner's cue to get back to the waiting room, where he really belonged. He was there just a moment before the young doctor stepped out. 

As usual in a busy hospital, the waiting room was fairly full. "Is there anybody here for Fox Mulder?" he asked to the crowd. 

Skinner stepped forward, extending a hand. "Assistant Director Walter Skinner, FBI. I'm Mulder's boss." 

The doctor looked around, seeming to search the waiting room. "Dr. Eugene Patterson, nice to meet you. Is there anybody else I should wait for? I understand a woman came in with him . . ." 

"Yeah, his partner, Dana Scully. They told me she rode in the ambulance with him, but I'm not sure where she is now. I expected her to be here," Skinner puzzled, looking around. "I'll update her when I find her - maybe she's in the Ladies Room or something. Can you tell me my agent's condition?" 

"Well, Mr. Skinner, there really isn't much I can tell you yet." Skinner sighed as the doctor continued. "The bullet entered the right upper quadrant at high velocity. It definitely hit the lung, compromising his breathing on that side, but we can't tell yet what other damage has been done. He coded on the way in, and while resuscitation efforts were eventually successful . . ." 

"What?" 

"Look, I'm going to be as up front as I can. He's in surgery now, and you're looking at a prolonged recovery. And he went for some time without oxygen moving to his brain. Too long a time." 

"You're worried about brain damage," Skinner stated. 

"In a word, yes. There's really no telling how much or how little could have been done. That'll have to wait until he wakes up." 

"When do you expect that to be?" 

"I can't say; the surgeon will know more when he's finished. If you want, you can go wait in the Surgical Waiting Room on Six. We can have the ER clerk direct his partner there when she shows up." 

"Thanks," Skinner said. "I'll wait here for a bit, then go on up. I really don't want Scully hearing any of this from a stranger." 

"It'll be a few hours before they're finished anyway." He laid a hand on Skinner's shoulder, an unusual occurrence. Most people seemed to avoid physical contact with the AD, and he usually liked it that way. "Hang in there. He'll need the support of his friends." 

"He'll get it," Skinner whispered to himself as Patterson walked away. He'd be sure of it. 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

Jogging was never her "thing" for getting exercise, but she wasn't exercising now. Scully ran and ran and ran, oblivious to the curious onlookers or the shortness of her breaths. Mulder had been seriously hurt plenty of times before, but this was the first time where she was sure, absolutely sure, that it was her fault. 

She'd rejected him, hurt him. And he'd been distracted. His mind hadn't been on the job, and it had gotten him killed. If only she'd been able to give him what he wanted. If only she'd insisted they wait to talk about it until they were off duty. 

Finally, not even sure how far she'd run in her blind dash, she stopped, slumping down against the nearest wall. She didn't notice when her panting turned to sobbing. Thanking God for the fact that nobody seemed willing to interfere these days, she sobbed herself out until there were no more tears to be shed. Then she rose on trembling legs. 

She needed to get away. She couldn't be here. Not now. Maybe not ever again. She'd caused the death of the best friend she'd ever had; for this, there was no forgiveness. Not that Mulder had anybody left to forgive her anyway. 

Skinner would make the arrangements. A hero's funeral, as Mulder so surely deserved. Maybe her mom would attend. The Lone Gunmen would surely be there. The people mourning him wouldn't need to be reminded of the person who failed to keep him safe. Oh, they'd never know what she'd done - what had happened to make Mulder so careless that he'd make the mistake that cost him his life. 

Reaching into the pocket of her trench coat, she finally found her phone. Speed dial only took two button pushes. 

"Hi, Mom? I need the keys to the cabin." 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

It had been hours, and Mulder was still in surgery. Skinner paced, sick of sitting. Besides, several others had come to wait with him who could use the seats much more than he could. 

Several other agents who had been on the same stakeout were also there, the ASAC feeling particularly bad about what happened. He had no cause, Skinner assured him. 

The one thing he'd been unable to stop thinking about was Scully. Interviews with the hospital staff assured him she'd been there, come in with the ambulance, and left soon thereafter. One nurse reported she'd actually been running, but they couldn't substantiate that. The cab company that frequented the area hadn't picked up a fare, and Scully and Mulder's car hadn't been reclaimed at the scene of the shooting. 

It was as if she disappeared off the face of the earth, and that just wasn't like her. He was used to seeing her hovering over her partner when he was hospitalized. Scrutinizing every fact, double-checking every treatment . . . Where the hell was she? 

He had no time to think about it further as a doctor who looked too young to be a surgeon approached in wrinkled scrubs. At least he had the courtesy not to come out covered in blood. 

"Are you Mr. Skinner?" At his nod, the surgeon continued. "I'm Donald Asgard; I operated on your agent. Can we sit down?" He motioned to some of the seats that had been vacated when everybody stood upon his entrance. 

Skinner nodded again and the two men sat, a bevy of others gathered around them. 

"Firstly, and most important, Agent Mulder is alive and stable. However, he is in intensive care and will remain there for several days at best. The bullet entered the right upper quadrant, striking a rib and breaking it. From there, it appears to have ricocheted, puncturing the lung and damaging a major artery before finally coming to a stop near his spine." 

Skinner rubbed his eyes. His spine? What else could go wrong? 

But the doctor read the look. "Don't worry, there was definitely no spinal involvement. There'll be a slight bit of swelling for a few days, but it won't impair him at all. We went in, removed the bullet, stitched up the artery and the other bleeders, and fixed the lung and re-inflated it. There's a chest tube in now to help it stay that way, but he's still comatose." 

"How long do you think he'll be unconscious?" He knew it was the wrong word, but he couldn't bring himself to say Mulder's true condition. 

"We really don't know. I'm sorry. If his brain wasn't deprived of oxygen for too long - if there was no damage done to keep him comatose - he could awaken any time in the next twelve to twenty-four hours." 

"Can I see him?" 

"Yes, you can sit with him for a bit. Keeping vigil can be an exhausting task, so I'd recommend taking frequent breaks. Get some sleep, eat, change clothes, shower. I'm sure your friend wouldn't want you getting sick while you wait for him to awaken." 

Skinner rose docilely and followed the woman in white. 

As much as he'd been prepared for what he'd see in ICU, it still took him off guard. Mulder was covered in tubes and wires, a myriad of machines surrounded him, each doing their own job. He'd seen them before for the most part, but this was the first time he'd witnessed them all being used at once. It was an ominous sight. 

"Talk to him," the nurse said as she checked his IV. 

"I've heard that so many times. You really think he can hear me?" 

"What harm could it do?" she said with a shrug. "Certainly no one here will judge you for it." 

"Better to be safe than sorry, is that what you're saying?" 

"In other words," she agreed as she left the cubicle. 

Skinner smiled, feeling a little lighter. "Come on, Mulder," he whispered after the silence got to be too much. "You've got to prove them wrong once again. It won't be the first time; you always did have a tendency to buck authority." 

There was no response, not that he expected one. "What happened out there?" he asked, as much thinking to himself as asking Mulder. "You were never one to make that kind of mistake. You're one of the best agents I've ever seen, Mulder. What made you do something so foolish? So reckless?" 

"I know, I know. You're probably thinking that Scully can file the report on this one. Well, she can't this time - I need a report from you. So you've got to come back, whole and healthy, and give it to me, Mulder." 

Looking down at his hands, Skinner's thoughts turned inward. No longer speaking to the comatose man in front of him, he whispered, "where the hell did she go?" He'd seen Mulder hurt more times than most agents experience in an entire career, and the one thing on which he could always depend was that she'd be there. Supporting him, treating him, making sure he got the best medical care possible, and even cajoling him to fight when he had no more fight left in him. He wouldn't respond to just anybody either, but she had a magic with him, a certain touch, that kept him going. Made him try harder, longer, and more desperately to get back to one hundred percent than he would for any therapist, doctor, boss, or even friend. 

What could possibly have driven her from his side? For he felt assured that she was driven away. She'd never leave of her own free will. The only possibility would be a desire for revenge - to go out and get the man who had shot Mulder. Could she possibly not have heard that the other members of the team got the shooter as he was fleeing from the scene? It was possible, he decided. 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

Scully considered herself fortunate; she'd been able to pick up the keys to the Scully family cabin before Maggie headed to the airport for her flight to visit Bill, Tara, and Matthew. Of course, she'd seen that her daughter was upset, and grilled her endlessly about what had happened to put Dana into such a state; her mother had been convinced that it was just overwork and tension, and that some time alone in the middle of nowhere was exactly what she needed. 

Now, keys sitting on the seat beside her, Scully drove through the darkness. Oh, it was more than the darkness of the night, but the darkness of her life, now that Mulder was gone from it. Yes, she had other loved ones. People who would even go to the ends of the earth for her. But she could do nothing for them except spare them the danger of being around her. Her friends get hurt . . . that's all there was to it. And she really didn't want any company anyway. She'd caused the death of her best friend. The best friend she'd ever had. How could she go on with her life after that? 

The drive took hours, although she'd lost track of the time and couldn't say exactly how many. Taking only what was already in her car - an overnight bag - her personal needs were the last thing on her mind. Mulder was gone, and it was her fault. 

And worse yet, since his death, she'd come to realize that it wasn't even based on the truth. She'd told Mulder that she didn't love him - not like a woman loves a man. But now she realized that she did . . . <had> loved him. And her fear of her own feelings, her own affections and emotions, had cost the life of the man she loved. 

As she approached a winding curve bracketing a canyon, she contemplated just letting the car take her over the edge. She'd be with him again, and if there were apologies in the afterlife, she'd make sure that he had hers most sincerely. But her own guilt wouldn't allow it. It was too easy . . . too simple and painless. Scully had never been one for self-flagellation, but she felt she'd never been so deserving of it. 

Yes, the cabin was the right place to be. And if somebody found her, then she'd find another place. She couldn't be around people . . . didn't deserve to be. And that would be her punishment. 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

Six days, Walter Skinner thought as he entered the ICU cubicle yet again. Six days, and there'd been no change in Fox Mulder's condition. He was suddenly filled with a new appreciation for what Scully had gone through in Alaska; those weeks of waiting for Mulder to awaken from the retrovirus while she waited by his side, overseeing his medical care. Skinner couldn't even do that much; what he knew about medicine could fill a thimble with room to spare. He wished she was there. 

But she wasn't. They'd looked everywhere, finally putting out an APB for her and her car, but even that was to no avail. If several witnesses hadn't seen her leaving the hospital, he would worry about her safety - that she'd been hurt in the shootout as well - but that was not the case. His superiors had refused to allow him to expand the search, including the media and local police departments; they said they were not going to make a spectacle of the Bureau for an agent who left of her own recognizance and was not proven to be in any danger. 

All he could do was keep the APB active - whatever she was doing, wherever she'd gone, she was in danger by doing it alone. And knowing how close the two agents were, she probably wasn't going in as level-headed as she should. 

So, in her absence, he placed himself in the position of overseer for the wounded agent. Mulder had no one else. His parents were dead, his sister long since missing and presumed the same. And with Scully, his partner and only other family, missing, he took it upon himself to take on the role. 

He'd thought about contacting the Lone Gunmen days ago, and while they seemed to be loyal friends, he just couldn't see what help it would be. ICU wasn't a place where visitors were easily permitted; his badge and position alone had afforded him the freedom to sit here hour after hour. When Mulder's position improved, or degraded, he'd call them, he figured. 

He wondered briefly if that had been a mistake. The Gunmen may not have been able to help here, but their computer and hacking abilities might be able to help locate Scully. Perhaps that's what they should be doing while he sat vigil in the ICU. 

Considering the options, he rose to momentarily leave Mulder's bedside and use a pay phone. It was a number he couldn't remember by heart, but had tucked away in his wallet for just such an emergency. 

"Lone Gunmen." He wasn't sure which one it was, as he hadn't talked to them on the phone often enough to know. 

"This is Walter Skinner. I need your assistance." 

Suddenly, he was on speakerphone, and three voices spoke at once. 

"What's happened?" 

"What did they do this time?" 

"How can we help?" 

He was right - they were good people to have on your team. 

"I'm at the hospital; Mulder's been hurt in a shootout." 

"I'm sure Scully will have him fixed up quickly," one voice suggested. 

"I wish she could. She's missing. I need you guys to try to track her." 

"Some bastard kidnapped her? What was the case they were working on?" 

"She wasn't taken against her will; it appears she just left." 

"Agent Scully would never leave Mulder while he's injured," another, more even-toned voice commented. 

"Well, this time she did. I have several witnesses who saw her leave the emergency room while Mulder was being treated. From there, she seems to have vanished." 

"I'd never believe it . . ." 

"What do you want us to do?" 

"Track her in any way you can. Airlines, busses, trains, her car. Track her credit cards, her bank records. I don't care, just tell me where she is." 

"You got it," said a voice, certainly Frohike's this time. "How's everything going there?" 

"Mulder's holding his own, but that's about all I can say at the moment. Call me on my cell when you know something. The number is 555-3824. If I'm in with Mulder, you'll have to leave a message, but I'll check them every quarter hour. I need to know where she disappeared to, guys." 

"If it's possible, we'll find out." 

Both sides of the conversation hung up without a goodbye. 

"Let's hope it's possible," Skinner whispered to himself as he returned to ICU. 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

The seventh day dawned bright, the sunshine even making its way through the meager ICU windows to cast a beam over Skinner's face, waking him. It didn't happen every night, but this wasn't the first in the past week where he'd awoken at Mulder's bedside. 

Once again, he prayed that there'd be some kind of change. Even if things turned sour, at least it would be something. At least Mulder would be freed from this. He realized how uncharitable some people would be if they could read his thoughts, but Mulder was a man of action; he wouldn't want to lie here in a vegetative state for the rest of his life. 

As he was staring at his agent, contemplating the situation , a very young-looking doctor entered Mulder's cubicle. Skinner immediately began to rise, giving the physician the opportunity to be alone with his patient. However, the man laid a hand on his shoulder, preventing his rising. 

"Just stay put, Mr. Skinner. I'll only be a minute." 

"Excuse me," Skinner said quizzically. "Have we met?" 

"No, but I was fully versed by the ER doctor. I'm a resident neurologist, Doug Joaquin." He allowed Skinner to study him for a moment. 

"Awfully young to be a neurologist, aren't you, Dr. Joaquin?" 

"Not as young as I appear, and please don't start calling me Doogie Howser. I get enough of that from the nurses." His smile was warm, and he chuckled. Even if he didn't care for the nickname, he obviously held no grudges. 

"I think I can control myself," Skinner nodded. "So, what d'you think?" he asked, his eyes moving to the man in the bed. 

"Well, so far, his brain waves are okay. The damage wasn't severe enough to affect that, but otherwise, we can't know until he wakes up. When that happens, we'll put him through a battery of tests to be sure everything is working okay. His chest surgeon will come in and check his own work, so I can't really speak for that." 

"Any idea how long?" 

"Before he regains consciousness?" Skinner nodded silently. "It's hard to say. His brain waves are such that he could wake any minute. Or he could be out for days yet. It's all up to Agent Mulder." 

"Think he can hear us?" Both men looked from each other to Mulder. 

"Well, if he can, he'd better listen to his doctor and wake up soon. I'm not known for being the most patient doctor in the hospital." 

"I'm not the most patient of bosses either, Doctor, and Mulder knows it. So he'd just better . . ." 

At that very moment, eyelids fluttered, and then opened, blinking in the brightness of the ICU lights. 

"Mulder!" Skinner exclaimed in shock. 

"AD Skinner, your authority over your agents is quite remarkable," Joaquin joked. "How do you feel, Mr. Mulder?" 

Mulder's hazel eyes grew wide, the expression in them frantic, but he didn't answer. 

"Mulder, the doctor asked you a question," Skinner said with more force, but he couldn't shake the terror in those eyes. 

"Agent Mulder, can you hear us?" the doctor asked. Mulder nodded once, slowly. "Can you understand us?" He nodded again. It was obvious the message was getting through. "Can you speak? Try to answer me verbally." 

Mulder's mouth moved a bit, his lips parted, but no sound issued forth. This went on for almost a minute before the patient looked down at his hands, shaking his head. 

"That's okay, Mr. Mulder. Don't try to force it. Let's try something else, shall we?" He dug in the breast pocket of his smock, removing a small pad of paper and a pen, which he handed to Mulder. He took them with no problem, but with quite a bit of weakness from his injury. 

"Okay, now I want you to write down your name." 

Fox Mulder put pen to paper, as he'd done a thousand times before. But this time, the words didn't form. He managed a few awkward lines, but nothing that could be misconstrued as letters by any sense of the word. Finally, frustrated, he put down the pen. 

"That's okay, Mr. Mulder. We'll work on that." 

Mulder's eyes moved from the doctor to Skinner, and somehow, the AD knew exactly what his agent wanted to know. "What's wrong with him, Dr. Joaquin? He deserves to know." 

The doctor let out a heavy sigh, and sat on the edge of his patient's bed where he could address both men, but he paid more attention to Mulder. 

"You were shot, Agent Mulder, and we nearly lost you. You know that much, right?" Mulder nodded; he'd figured out that much. 

"What you may not know is how close you came to dying. You're going to be all right now, but it was close. You actually <did> die. And during that time, the oxygen flow to your brain was reduced or cut off entirely. Now we're going to have to give you some more tests to confirm my suspicions, but I think what's happening here is that you're suffering from a condition - a version of brain damage - called Broca's Aphasia." 

"Aphasia? That's when you can't talk, right?" Skinner asked. 

"In this case, yes. There are a few different kinds. He can comprehend us talking, but he can't speak. And while he can't write, I'd be willing to bet he can read." 

Skinner took the newspaper from where he'd laid it at the foot of the bed. "Can you read this?" he asked, showing Mulder the article on his own shooting. 

Mulder nodded, and wrinkled his nose in an expression he got when the press saw fit to reveal him to the world. Yes, he could read. 

"So what do we do?" Skinner asked the question Mulder could not. 

"Other than the tests to confirm my diagnosis, there's not much we can do about it right away. You have a lot of healing to do yet, Mr. Mulder. And once you're feeling a little bit better, we'll get you started on some speech therapy. The good news is, there's a pretty good chance we can get you back to normal, but I'm not going to kid you, you have a great deal of work ahead of you. It's going to be a tough fight, but we should be able to get you talking again." 

"How is that possible?" Skinner asked as Mulder nodded that he had the same question. 

"The brain is a very adaptable organ, Mr. Mulder. Part of it was damaged by the lack of oxygen, but most of it is fine, which is obvious from your ability to move, comprehend, recognize your coworker and the world around you. With the proper therapy, we can train a new part of your brain to take over control of the speech center. Some of this will happen automatically. In the next few hours, you'll probably manage a word here or there, but let them come - don't force it." 

Both men nodded this time. "Okay, now outside of the Aphasia, you have a very serious bullet wound to your chest, and it's important that you stay in bed, rest, let yourself heal, and not try to sit up beyond a 45 degree angle. We don't want too much stress put on that chest." 

Mulder's eyelids began to droop, and both men knew they'd taxed him enough. "I'll let you get back to sleep, Agent. You need all the rest you can get." 

The doctor left in silence, but Skinner stayed at Mulder's bedside. "Can I get you anything?" he asked him just before he dropped off. 

The patient weakly lifted an arm, bringing his hand to a place high on his chest, almost to his neck. He traced the shape of a cross once, then again. It confused Skinner - he'd never thought Mulder was religious. 

"Do you want me to call a priest?" he asked. Mulder rolled his head from side to side in a tired "no". And then it occurred to him what Mulder was doing. It was a cross . . . Scully's cross. He wanted Scully. 

"We're working on it, Mulder. You do your part, and I'll do mine." Mulder's eyes closed, and Skinner prayed that by the time he woke again, they'd have Scully at his bedside. 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

The limited supplies stocked in the cabin had been used up for days. The bottled water was exhausted just that morning, and she knew she should do something about it, but she just couldn't care. More than just thinking she deserved it, she found that, without Mulder in her life, she couldn't bear to imagine going on. 

She'd loved him, but simply loving him hadn't been enough. Not enough for him, and it had gotten him killed. She laughed bitterly at the thought that he was looking down on her now. What would he be feeling in the afterlife? Bitterness at her refusal of him. Of their - dare she say it - romantic feelings? Or forgiveness for the misguided soul she now knew she'd been. 

No point in pondering, she thought. Where would it get her? It wouldn't bring him back. As for the rest of her pitiful life, what was there worth thinking about? A job she couldn't bear to go to? A family who loved her but felt sorry for her, too? 

She'd lain down on the bed, feeling tired and worn out. Realizing she was probably emaciated from lack of food, she considered for a second going to town for supplies, but when it came down to it, she just couldn't be bothered. 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

Mulder was watching television when Skinner entered the room after having gone out for some dinner. It was an awkward position to be in; the care taking of Mulder - and he did require taking care of, it seemed - had befallen on him. For the life of him, he couldn't think of anybody else now who would do it. 

Except for Scully, of course. He clearly remembered his call into the task force assigned to locate the missing agent. 

"This is Skinner, give me an update." 

"I'm sorry, Sir, we've come up with nothing. We've searched her apartment, work, talked to a few friends. Even stopped at the place where she works out and usually shops. Nobody's seen her." 

"Any luck in locating her mother?" 

"No, nothing there either, Sir." 

"What about her brothers?" 

"Ummm . . ." Clearly, the agent hadn't looked into that aspect, which was confirmed a moment later. "We haven't tried that yet." 

"Look, Thompson," Skinner had said in exasperation. "This is the damn Federal Bureau of Investigation, not a penny-ante private detective agency. If you or anybody on your team thinks they can do a half-assed job and still keep it, they're dreaming." 

"But, sir . . ." 

"No, buts, Agent. Get on it immediately if not sooner. I want another report by nineteen hundred hours, and I want to hear that somebody has spoken with at least one of her brothers by then!" 

"Sir, that's only two hours!" 

"Are you questioning your assignment, Agent? Because if you are, I'm sure I can get you reassigned." He didn't have to say that the new assignment wouldn't be a pleasant one; if the agent couldn't tell from his tone, then he was in the wrong business. 

"No, Sir, not at all. We'll get right on it." 

"You do that, Agent." 

The call had ended abruptly. Skinner hadn't bothered to say anything more; nothing more was worth saying. Besides, the Gunmen had given him that much information two days ago. It was embarrassing that the Bureau couldn't do better than the hackers. 

Now, it was time to address more immediate concerns. The injured agent was lying at a slight incline, watching as the television blared a commercial for athletic shoes. 

"What're you watching?" he asked. 

"Ball game." It came out so easily and clearly that it stunned the Assistant Director. Could it be . . .? 

"Oh, yeah?" he said, taking a seat. "Who's playing?" 

There was no answer, and while Mulder's eyes and, obviously, brain were working feverishly, he couldn't manage the words. And the more he tried, the more frustrated he got. 

"Never mind, they'll say in a minute, I'm sure. Hey, but at least your speech is improving some." 

Mulder nodded, but his brow was wrinkled in a frown. 

"What is it, Mulder?" 

The patient's face was a study in concentration for a moment before he stubbornly said, "Scully." 

Sighing, he knew that he owed the man the facts about his partner. If it distressed him . . . well, it was his right to be distressed. Skinner would have demanded no less if the situations had been reversed. 

"She got through the shooting just fine, but she disappeared after the ambulance arrived at the hospital. One of the nurses said that she ran out of here after you were pronounced." 

Mulder raised an eyebrow to ask the question he knew he'd have to face eventually. "Yes, Mulder. You were clinically dead for several minutes before you came back on your own. I guess you weren't ready to go just yet, huh?" 

"Talk?" 

"Yes, it's likely that the Aphasia is due to the amount of time you went without oxygen, but the doctor assures me that it'll come back." It worried him that he'd had to repeat what the agent had been told once before. Then the patient managed a word that Skinner had never anticipated. 

"Maggie." 

"It seems that she's gone on vacation. We've checked her house and the airline shows her flying into LAX sometime later on the day you were shot. She took out a rental there, but that's the last we can trace of her. We're still looking, and we're hopeful that, when we find her, she'll know where Scully went. If nothing else, she's got to come home eventually." 

Mulder nodded, looking thoughtful, and Skinner wondered what was going through that astute mind of his. 

"So, have you had your dinner?" It was only 5:30, so it was hard to guess. 

Mulder nodded with a grim expression, picking up his glass of water as if in example. 

"Liquid diet?" A nod. "Well, I'm sure that's just until you're healed enough to have something more substantial. Would you like me to ask the doctor about it? Maybe I can smuggle you a burger." 

"Pizza." There was no mistaking that word, even though it was spoken hesitantly, as all the words he managed were. 

"We'll have to see about that. I don't imagine it would be doctor recommended even for the healthiest of patients." 

Mulder actually smiled at that, and it occurred to Skinner that it was the first smile he'd seen from the man since he'd awoken. Just then, the game came back on. "Ah, the Knicks. I should have known," Skinner said, sitting back. "Mind if I watch with you?" 

The answer was basically no answer, as Mulder turned up the volume and sat back to enjoy the game. It was a momentary distraction, Skinner knew, and they'd damn well better find Scully soon. Mulder would only believe the excuses for so long. 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

Skinner had gone to the restroom and taken the opportunity to check the voicemail on his cellular around 6:30 p.m. There was an urgent message from Thompson. 

"We have something on the mother, Sir. Call me and I'll give you the details. We'll probably have spoken with her by then." 

He quickly disconnected and re-dialed Thompson's cell, which was answered on the first ring. The junior agent must have been holding it, just waiting for his call. 

"Thompson." 

"Yes, Thompson. It's Skinner. What've you got?" 

"We got ahold of Scully's brother Bill's wife. He's apparently out on maneuvers with the Navy. She said that her mother-in-law was there visiting, but was out meeting with some old friends. We're due to try her back at six o'clock; that's when she told her she'd be returning to the house." 

"Anything more?" 

"We asked about the car, Sir. It seems that Mrs. Scully had always wanted to drive the Pacific Coast Highway, so she rented a convertible and drove from Los Angeles to San Diego rather than flying there directly." 

Maggie Scully, driving down the highway with the top down and the wind in her hair was something Skinner couldn't picture for the life of him, but wished he could. Heck, he wished he could picture <himself> doing it. But hair was an issue these days, he thought to himself with a smile. 

"Give me the number, Thompson. I'll make the call and let you know what I find out from her." 

"Sir, are you sure?" 

"Yes, Agent. I know the woman, and I don't want her alarmed unnecessarily." 

Thompson provided Skinner with the number, which he scribbled on a piece of paper towel before hanging up. 

He'd already been in the restroom long enough for Mulder to get concerned, so he returned to the agent's bedside first, only to find he'd fallen asleep. Leaving the room quietly, he made his way to the foyer where the reception would be clearer, he was certain, and where he wouldn't get the evil eye from the medical staff. 

He dialed the number and heard it ring three times before it was finally picked up. 

"Scully residence." 

"Yes, this is Assistant Director Skinner at the FBI. To whom am I speaking?" 

"This is Tara Scully." 

"Mrs. Scully, I'm your sister-in-law's boss. Does Margaret Scully happen to be there?" 

"Yes, she just got in. Hold just one moment and I'll get her." The nervousness in the woman's voice was evident, but whether it was in fear of bad news or over simply speaking to a member of the law enforcement community - and a high-level one at that - Skinner wasn't sure." 

"Hello, Mr. Skinner," Maggie said politely, but the fear in her voice was clear. 

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Scully," he greeted, realizing that it was only 3:30 where she was on the Pacific coast. "I'm sorry to bother you while you're on vacation, but . . ." 

"But what? Is it Dana? Is she hurt?" 

He owed her honesty, he realized. Nothing less. "No. Well, we don't really know. She's been missing for a week now, and we were hoping that you'd know where she would have gone." 

"When exactly did anybody see her last? Have you spoken to Fox?" 

"She was with Mulder, on a stakeout a week ago last night. Something went wrong and he was shot. She rode to the hospital in the ambulance with him, and then seems to have disappeared. It looks like she just walked off." 

"Dana would never have done that. How is Fox?" 

"It was a close call, and we almost lost him, but it looks like he's going to make it," he reported, not sure how much information Mulder would want his partner's mother to have. "Did you see her after that night?" 

"She stopped by the house - it must have been late the same night - and asked to borrow the keys to the family cabin. She seemed upset, but she wouldn't say . . ." 

"Can you tell me the location of the cabin? It's vital that we make sure she's okay; I'm sure you understand." 

"Absolutely," she agreed, giving him not just the address, but directions to the cabin as well. "Mr. Skinner, call me when you hear something, please." 

"I will. I'm sure it's nothing," he said, trying to ease her mind, but she knew better. 

"Dana would never be anywhere but with Fox if he was hurt. No, I know something is up with my daughter. I need to know that my baby is okay, Mr. Skinner." 

"I promise. I'll let you know either way." 

They said their good-byes and he disconnected the call. The address she'd given him was two hours away and in the middle of nowhere. No telephones, either. The only question was whether he should send a team up there or go himself. Undoubtedly, a team could get there faster than he could, especially if they called in local law enforcement. But did he want his agent exposed to strangers when he didn't know her situation or condition? No, going up there himself was the only way. 

Returning to Mulder's room, he scribbled a note telling the patient he'd gone home for the night. Mulder was recovering from a critical injury; he needed to concentrate on that. 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

Skinner couldn't believe the beauty of the area where Maggie had sent him. Having grown up in the city, he was no expert, but the rural area that housed the Scully cabin was as close to paradise as he could imagine. Trees towered, grassy meadows flowed over hill and dale, small animals cavorted among the plants . . . It was almost enough to make him forget the very serious reason for his excursion. 

Almost. 

He wished the circumstances weren't so dire, and prayed that, when he got to the cabin, he would simply find Scully curled up with a stack of novels and a cord of firewood. He wouldn't even begrudge her that; it was hard enough to be an agent for the FBI, but it was even harder to do it with as single-minded a partner as Fox Mulder. Mulder was a great agent, but the fact was that he could try the patience of Mother Theresa. 

Checking the readout on his cellular, he breathed a sigh of relief that the reception was still clear. He'd made sure there was an ambulance crew standing by within a few minutes' drive, and the cellular company had guaranteed that the towers would pick up a signal from the cabin. He had all his bases covered. 

What could possibly have happened? He wondered. He'd never dreamed that Scully would leave her partner's side when he was injured, but their relationship - good or bad - when off duty was their own business. However, she'd disappeared before the case was finalized, and that <was> his business. And very uncharacteristic for Dana Scully. 

The only thing he could think of was that she'd wanted to get away for a bit and been abducted or hurt, or even killed, by one of their enemies. Scully and Mulder had ruffled more than a few feathers in the Consortium and had enough convictions to present a myriad of possibilities for who might want to harm her. Would he find her dead? Or only a vacant cabin? 

As he was mulling over these thoughts, he came upon what had to be the narrow dirt road that Margaret Scully said would lead to the cabin. It was a rough path, reminding him of just how long it had been since he'd last seen a restroom, but it seemed selfish to think of such things now. After about a quarter of a mile, he caught sight of Scully's car, parked haphazardly out front. 

Dust flew as he braked to a stop, jumping out as soon as he slammed the car into Park. 

"Scully!" he called, and heard the shout resound through the peaceful silence. "Scully!" 

Nobody came, not that he really expected them to. If it was as simple as coming to greet him, she surely would have heard the vehicle approach. Dust on her car told him that it had been quite some time since it had been moved, possibly since she'd first come here. She obviously hadn't been out socializing. 

He knocked on the door hesitantly, repetitively, and finally tried the knob when he got no response. It turned freely - the door was unlocked. That worried him more than anything else. 

The cabin wasn't very large. It took but a moment to scan it with his eyes before he moved to the only adjoining room. While the first room he'd entered had been a living area/kitchen combination, this was a bedroom. 

And on the bed, still and very, very pale, lay Special Agent Dana Scully. 

"Damn," he whispered, yanking out his cell and hitting speed dial. "This is Skinner. Get the ambulance up here immediately." 

He sat down on the edge of the bed, the lack of motion in her body worrying him even more when she didn't react to his presence. "Scully?" he said, checking for a pulse. It seemed weak, but then, he was no expert. "C'mon, Scully. Wake up." 

He tried shaking her slightly, but she may as well have been comatose for all the reaction he got. Hell, he didn't know for sure that she <wasn't> comatose. What could have left her like this? 

Checking her arms and legs and any other exposed skin, embarrassed at the act of doing so, he found no marks, scars, cuts or bruises. No injury that he could see, which left only illness. Or something internal, he told himself, thinking of the close call they'd had with her cancer. Was it possible? 

Two men with a wheeled stretcher broke into the cabin before he could ponder the question much longer. Making way for them, he jumped back and watched as they worked efficiently, checking vitals, starting an IV, and preparing her for the ride to the nearest hospital. He wished they were close enough that they'd be taking her to the same one where Mulder was, but it was just too far. Perhaps, later, when her condition had been identified, and stabilized, they could think about transferring her. 

"I'll follow you," Skinner said simply as they pushed the gurney into the ambulance and climbed in behind it. 

"She's stable," they told him with grim smiles. "It'll be okay. Are you the next of kin?" At least they had the graciousness not to ask if he was her father. 

"No, I'm her boss. Her mother's out of town, but I'll contact her." He paused, torn between wanting to let them be on their way and wanting to know what's going on. "Is she . . ." 

"We don't know yet. The doctor will be able to tell you more." 

Nodding, he helped them close the rear doors, then raced to his car so as not to lose them. This was a foreign area; he'd never be able to find the hospital if he didn't follow. 

It was a fifteen minute drive before they pulled into the hospital, and another five while he found a parking spot and could rush into the ER. By that time, Scully was in a treatment room and being seen to by the medical staff. He wanted to go in, be with her, but was stopped by a man in white. 

"Sorry, you can't go in there." 

"That's my agent; she shouldn't have to be alone." 

"She's not alone," he reassured. "These are great people here, they'll take good care of her." 

He nodded again, realizing he'd doing that a lot lately. It's something to do when there's simply nothing to be said. 

So he waited. He realized that it must not be as bad as he'd feared when a doctor approached him less than fifteen minutes later. 

"You came in with Dana Scully?" 

"Yes, I'm Assistant Director Skinner. How is she?" 

"It appears, Mr. Skinner, that your agent is suffering from severe dehydration and malnutrition. I'd estimate that she hasn't eaten for at least four days, and hasn't had any fluids for one to two. She's in no danger now that she's here, but she needs to be on IV fluids and intensive nutrition replacements for awhile. How did she end up like this?" he asked incredulously. "Because if she did this to herself, some counseling may be in order." 

"I really don't know, doctor, but be reassured. If she needs help, she'll get all of it she can use and then some." 

"Good. They're going to move her up to 302, so you can head up there if you want. I'd estimate she'll awaken in two or three hours. Just as long as is necessary to replenish the worst of her nutritional deficiencies." 

"I want to be with her when she wakes up. She's bound to be disoriented." 

"That's not only acceptable, I highly recommend it," the doctor smiled as he took his leave. 

Skinner's eyes fell on a pay phone nearby; he really should call Mulder, he thought. But the first thing his agent would want would be to talk to Scully - something impossible at the moment. Or, worse, he'd try to climb out of his own hospital bed just to be at the side of hers. Neither was an acceptable option, given the circumstances. So rather than make the call, he strode to the elevator. 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

Mulder awoke slowly, his eyes blearily opening to take in his room. It was starkly empty, even of the most annoying medical staff who seemed insistent on constantly jabbing and poking him. 

Thank God, he thought. Although things could have been a whole lot better. The chair beside his bed stood conspicuously empty, vacant of either his boss or his partner. His partner . . . Where was she now, he wondered. 

Probably as far away from you as she could get. 

He heard the words so clearly in his mind - now if he could only say them out loud. But that was going to be a while in coming, he knew. And in the meantime, he had nothing to do but to heal, perform his therapy, and contemplate the rest of his life without the woman who <was> his life. 

Dammit, why couldn't he have kept his mouth shut?! But no. He just <had> to admit the truth. The damnedable truth, and now he'd driven off his friend and partner because he wanted more. More than she had to give, so instead of ending up with a partner he was unrequitedly in love with, he was going to end up alone. 

There was only one answer: he had to find her. Find her, apologize, and beg to restore what they'd had, no questions asked, and no strings. He was damn sure that she wasn't going to come to him. He looked at the phone; that was useless, too. He couldn't call her if he couldn't speak, right? He couldn't even write her a damn letter. 

No, he knew what he needed to do. Pushing himself into a sitting position, he groaned as a knife ripped through his chest. Not that this was going to be easy. 

His first priority was getting rid of the tubes. Thankfully, they'd removed the chest tube already, because he had no idea how he'd have gotten rid of that. But the IV was easy enough. Hell, he wished he had a dime for every one he'd pulled himself, and debated whether it was more than he'd had removed the medically proper way. 

Once the IV was disposed of, he slid carefully to the edge of the bed, lowering unsteady legs until his feet touched the floor. A draft across his back reminded him that clothing was going to be an issue. Presuming, of course, that he had the energy to get farther than the front door, which was going to be a test in and of itself. 

But sitting there, mulling it over and trying to find excuses why he'd fail wasn't going to help any. He had things he had to do, and nothing was going to stop him. Shuffling to the closet for his robe, he repeated it to himself. Nothing would keep him from Scully. Nothing. 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

The last thing Scully remembered was falling asleep at the cabin, a feeling of weightlessness enshrouding her form. She looked forward to her death, sincere in the belief that Mulder would be waiting for her on the other side. He was her center - nothing else mattered. 

She never expected to wake again, and yet that seemed like exactly what was happening. Her eyes were blurry at first, but it didn't take long for her to focus, not just her eyes, but her mind as well. 

Skinner, of all people, sat at her bedside, and the pinch in the crook of her elbow was an IV, she was certain. The sun shone brightly through the window, uncaring that the world had lost one of its most wonderful defenders. It wasn't fair, she thought. It should be pouring rain in mourning for her partner. 

She didn't realize the tears had begun again until Skinner stood, using a tissue to wipe them gently away. It was an act of sympathy and gentleness she'd never expected from her stern boss, but she was grateful for it just the same. 

"It's going to be all right, Scully," he said, still trying to catch the cascading tears on the tiny piece of limp paper. 

"Why did you have to find me?" she sobbed, assuming correctly that only Skinner or her mother cared enough to come looking. 

"We found your mother in California. She told me that you'd borrowed the keys to the cabin and gave me directions," he said, incorrectly presuming that she'd meant to say "how," not "why." 

"You should have left me there," she stated. 

"Scully, what the hell did you think you were doing? When I found you, you were almost dead!" 

"Only counts in horse shoes, Sir," she said with a grim twitch of the corner of her mouth. 

"Do you have any idea how worried we've been?" He scolded, sounding like a parent reprimanding an errant child. "Your mother, me. . . . Mulder. . ." 

"I know what happened to Mulder. Why do you think I wanted to go away?" 

"Do you know how hard it was for him when he awoke and you weren't there? He counts on that - on you -- when he's injured. He relies on it." 

She doubted she was hearing him correctly. No, she must still be groggy. "I wanted to be with Mulder," she said. 

"And you will be, as soon as the doctors say you're well enough." 

She wasn't sure if it was the grogginess that was wearing off ,or if it was simply a puzzle to be solved, but something at that moment made her question. 

"I'll be well, but Mulder will still be dead," she stated, her eyes still streaming. "How can I be with him then?" 

Skinner's eyes grew as big as saucers at the implications. It all made so much more sense now! She really thought her partner was dead. 

"Scully," he said, sitting on the edge of her bed, "he's not dead." She looked at him as if he were from mars. "He's not! You left too soon; he came back to you. But by that time, you'd gone. He's been worried sick about you ever since he woke up!" 

"It's not possible. . ." but the truth was, she was afraid to believe. 

"Yes, it is. They revived him. Or he revived himself. Whatever. The point is that his recovery will never be what it can unless you're there. You give him incentive. A goal." 

She still couldn't believe it. He was alive. 

"What's his condition, Sir?" She suddenly felt much more awake. 

"I won't lie to you, it was close. He has a serious chest wound that's going to take some time to heal, and . . ." He seemed hesitant to say it all. 

"And what? I have a right to know." 

"He went for several minutes without oxygen to his brain. As a result, he's suffering from something called Broca's Aphasia. Because of that, he can't . . ." 

"You're telling me that he can't speak, and he can't write. How is he communicating?" 

"Well, he can manage a word here or there. Otherwise, we've been trying to stick to yes or no statements so he can just nod his head. He doesn't seem to have any problem understanding what we're saying; he just can't reciprocate in kind." 

"That's a characteristic of the aphasia," she said, pulling at her lip, deep in thought. "He probably can read, too." 

"Yes, he can." 

"Sir, I've got to get to him," Scully said, pushing down the blanket on the bed and moving to rise. 

"Yes, you do, but not just yet," Skinner said, standing over her, blocking her way. "First, you have to regain your strength." 

"I'm strong enough now!" 

"You're strong enough when the doctor assigned to your case says you are, and not a second before. Once he's given his permission, I'll take you to Mulder first thing, I promise. But the first step is eating." 

At just that moment, an orderly came in with a meal tray. It was unappetizing, bordering on disgusting, including a chalky can of nutritional supplement drink, but she sat up and dug into it with vigor. The sooner she ate, the sooner she'd see Mulder. And she <needed> to see Mulder very badly. 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

If anybody realized that the scrubs-clad man wasn't a medical practitioner, they didn't make comment on it as Mulder made his way down in the elevator and out the front door. He'd traded his hospital gown and robe for the outfit in a closet he'd found near his room, lucky to have emerged unseen at a time when the nursing staff was helping other patients. 

His first stop had to be his own apartment. He'd need to get his spare gun, just in case she was in any danger, and more normal clothes wouldn't hurt either, he realized. 

God, it hurt. Pain sliced through his chest as he raised a hand to hail the cab. Fortunately, they'd incarcerated him in one of the more metropolitan hospitals in the city, where finding a method of transportation, despite being too injured to drive, would be easy. He could admit that he was too hurt to drive; any doubt of that fact would have been washed away the first time he moved an arm, or a shoulder. Changing into the scrubs had been sheer torture, but there were more important things than creature comforts. 

"Where to?" the cab driver asked, looking back at him. He tried to say the words, but they refused to pass his lips. "C'mon, buddy. I ain't got all day." 

A flash of inspiration struck Mulder, and he quickly reached for his wallet. Fortunately, it had been placed in the bedside table, and he'd found it before making his escape. With trembling fingers, he opened to his driver's license, showing it to the driver. 

"What're you, mute or somethin'?" Okay, it wasn't exactly accurate, but it was close enough, he thought as he nodded. "You wanna go home?" the man asked when Mulder continued to point to the address on the card. 

With a sigh of relief, Mulder nodded yes. 

"Okay, you got it, pal. We'll have you home in a jiffy." 

Sitting back in the seat, Mulder was tempted to just stay there forever. The walk from his room to the curb had taken more out of him than he'd ever dreamed possible. He wasn't sure he could move another muscle, but he had to. He had to find Scully, or at least find out what had happened to her. His own life meant nothing compared to hers. 

"We're here, Mister!" 

He must have dozed off, he realized, when the time passed seemingly in an instant. Looking over the driver's shoulder, he read the meter and handed him the appropriate cash. 

"Hey, are you gonna be all right?" the driver asked him as he slowly and painfully made his way out of the back seat. "You sure I can't take you back to the hospital?" 

Mulder shook his head no, but realized that he still required the cab's services. The driver was, thankfully, perceptive, because he somehow read the agent's body language. "Do you want me to wait for you?" 

After answering yes and deciding the man seemed honest enough, he gave him an extra five for the wait and made his way upstairs. 

The scrubs were more painful to take off than they to put on, and Mulder was exhausted by the time they were a pile on the floor. He looked longingly at the pillow. How easy it would be to lie down there and drift off into slumber, away from the pain and the worry. But he couldn't afford to rest on his laurels while Scully was out there, in God-knew what kind of trouble. Gritting his teeth, he donned a pair of dress pants - they were looser than his jeans - and a button-down shirt that was easier to put on. 

Normally, he'd carry his billfold in his back pocket, but there was no way he was going to stretch his chest muscles like that, so he slid it into the breast pocket of the shirt, then went to his desk to scoop up his address book. He eyed the desk chair, wanting to sit down so badly . . . 

Faster than he expected, he found himself back in the cab, the driver smiling at him. "Where to now?" 

Showing him Scully's address in the book, he sat back for the ride from Arlington to Georgetown. The rhythm of the tires sliding over cement quickly lulled him back to sleep. 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

"Okay, I've eaten my meal like a good little girl. Now take me to Mulder." She was brooking no argument, that much was clear. 

"Let's talk to your doctor and get him to sign your release papers. If you're up to ordering me around, you must be strong enough," Skinner smiled. It was surprising him how his feelings towards this woman had changed over the years. He felt that Mulder cared for her, as did he, but it was different all the same. They may have fooled themselves and each other for a long time now, but he knew the truth: the love they held for each other was very real, and not at all like partners. 

Fortunately, Scully wasn't nearly the patient that Mulder had always proven to be in the past. She sat back patiently until the physician and nurse arrived, allowed her blood pressure to be taken and her heart listened to, until the doctor declared her fit enough to leave if she insisted. And she <did> insist. 

"If I sign your release papers," the doctor said, "you have to assure me that you'll continue to rest. Eat regularly and well. Don't let yourself get this run down again." 

"I promise, I'll behave. Now can I go?" 

"Yes, you may. But I want you to see your doctor in a week, or come back here, for another check. Just to make sure everything's back to normal." 

"Oh, it will be, Doctor," Scully promised with more vigor in her voice than he'd heard in a long time. "Now if you'll all excuse me. . ." 

Skinner and the staff exited the room, closing the door to give her the privacy she'd want to change. By the time she opened the door, looking pretty much back to normal, he was the only one left in the hall. 

"I don't suppose anybody brought my car back from the cabin, did they, sir?" she asked, walking beside him. 

"It's waiting for you at the Bureau garage." 

"Good. If you could just drop me off there . . ." 

"Not so fast, Agent Scully," he said, using his best authoritarian voice. "You may be well enough to be out of the hospital, but I'm not convinced that you're ready to drive." 

"But, Sir. I need to . . ." 

"And you'll be able to do everything you need to. You just have a chauffeur for the indefinite future. Now where do you want to go?" 

"First? The hospital, to see Mulder." 

"I should have guessed," Skinner said, smiling, as he escorted her into his car. 

The drive went quickly, but still took longer than Scully would have liked, her thoughts on her injured partner the entire way. Glancing over at the console, she saw that they were already at 70 miles per hour. Still, it wasn't fast enough. 

"Relax, Scully," Skinner said, and she was struck by how different her name sounded from when it came from Mulder's lips. "We'll be there before he's had a chance to turn his nose up at what they bring him for lunch." 

She couldn't help but grin. "Well, can you blame him, Sir? It may be nutritious, but it's far from palatable." 

"I've been in the hospital, and I've been in the army. Trust me when I say that it could be a whole lot worse." 

"I remember very well from when I was in Alaska - you'll get no argument from me, Sir." 

She tried to keep up her end of the small talk, but her mind, and her heart, just weren't in it. All her concentration was centered on the man they were going to see. The man, she could finally admit, that she loved. 

Finally, Skinner steered the car into a parking space in the hospital's lot. 

"It's room 425," he stated as they bypassed the registration and visitors' desk. As agents of the FBI, they weren't required to check in. 

Scully knew this hospital well - Mulder had been in it more than once before - and she had no problem making a bee-line for the elevators that would take her upstairs. 

What she didn't expect, when their ride ended, was to have the doors open to such confusion. Utter chaos seemed to reign, with medical staff rushing to and fro, one conversation overlapping another. 

"Why do I have a feeling that Mulder has something to do with this?" she said, rushing forward through the craziness. She grabbed the first person who seemed to be in any kind of authority. 

"What's going on?" 

"Nothing, ma'am. If you'll excuse me . . ." 

"No, that's not acceptable. I'm an agent with the FBI and I'm a medical doctor. Now tell me what the situation is!" 

The woman, an older nurse with a stern expression, was instantly contrite. "I'm sorry, Agent. It seems that . . . well, a patient has been misplaced." 

"Misplaced? You mean you <lost> someone?" 

"Well, we're not sure. Maybe the Bureau can help. He was there in his bed one minute, and gone a few minutes later when they went to deliver his lunch tray." 

"Could this patient have just gone out for a stroll?" 

"No, I don't believe so, ma'am. He was badly injured, and still on a lot of painkillers. He had a chest injury." 

The final piece clicked into place for both Scully and Skinner. Cripes, Mulder does it to them again, she thought. 

"This patient. He wouldn't happen to be named Fox Mulder, would he?" 

"Yes, you know him?" 

"He's my partner; we were just on our way to visit him. How long has it been since anyone's actually seen him?" 

"A little over an hour." 

"He won't be in the hospital anymore," she told the nurse. 

"But he was in no condition to walk . . ." 

"It doesn't matter what his condition was. If he had it in his head to leave, he'd find a way." 

"But . . ." 

"Look, just write him off as AMA, and I'll get him back here, either to stay or to sign the appropriate forms. There's no need to tear the hospital apart searching, because I'm sure he's not here." 

"Very well, ma'am," the woman said, but the concern in her voice was evident. 

"Don't worry," Scully said, smiling slightly. "None of this was your fault. And I'll make sure that he's okay." 

"Thank you, Agent. Doctor," she modified. With a matching smile, the woman walked away. 

"He was very concerned about you," Skinner said once they were alone. "The fact that you hadn't come to see him. I got the impression that he thought you'd been grabbed or maybe left him over something he said. What <did> he say?" 

"Nothing that I shouldn't have said a long time ago." She left it intentionally cryptic. No need for Skinner to know anything until they'd really talked. 

"So, you want me to take you to your place? That's probably the first place he would go looking." 

"No, I don't think so," Scully said, pulling at her lip again as they re-boarded the elevator. "He'd be hardly dressed to go running around. You said he was aphasic, right?" 

"Yes. I don't think he's mastered a grand total of five words so far." 

"So he wouldn't be able to ask the Gunmen for help. He'd have to take a cab." 

"Yeah, I guess." 

"So how would he tell the driver where to go?" 

The light dawned in Skinner's face. "He'd have his wallet, if he thought to take it from the nightstand in his room." 

"Which would have his ID as well as his driver's license in it. But probably not anything with my address. He'd have to go home to get that." 

"To Hegel Place, then?" Skinner asked, smiling. 

"Yep." By now, they'd made it to the parking lot. "With any luck, the activity thus far would have exhausted him to the point that he'll still be there." 

"You really think so?" He sounded doubtful. 

"Think? Maybe more like hope," she answered, climbing into the passenger side with no protest. 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

As Mulder climbed from the cab, he motioned for the driver to wait. By this time, they'd developed a rudimentary form of communication. 

"Okay, Mr. Mulder. I'll be here," the cabby said with concern in his voice. 

Mulder knew that he looked like hell. Knew it, because he'd seen it reflected in the man's face and felt it in his very bones. Every step was a test, to see if he could continue to put one foot in front of the other. He knew he belonged in bed - wouldn't have argued the point if he could have - but if Scully was in trouble, that was his priority. When she was safe, he promised himself, he'd return to the hospital. 

Grateful for the foresight that had allowed them to exchange apartment keys for emergencies, he slipped the one on his key ring labeled "Scully" into the deadbolt on her door. Thankfully, it was still locked. Or maybe not thankfully, since it probably meant she wasn't here. He was always on Scully's case to lock the door once she was inside, but it was something she couldn't seem to get into the habit of doing. 

The apartment felt empty. "Sssssssscully?" he managed to say, walking doubled over, through the place. Bedroom, bathroom, livingroom. . . she wasn't in any of them, nor was there any sign that she'd been there recently. Even a slight film of dust sat on the appliances, and the mail inside her door had piled up. She'd had the mail slot installed so that the landlord could move her mail from the small box she had in the lobby on those occasions where she was gone for consecutive days on a case. 

Re-locking her door as he left, he tried to think of where else he could check, but it was hard to think through the growing fogginess. If he could just sit and rest for a few minutes . . . but he knew that if he did, he'd probably not get up again. So he had no choice but to continue on, but to where? 

It suddenly came to him: the Gunmen. Surely they'd have a way to find her. If she was all right, but running from him, they could trace her credit cards. And if she had been taken or hurt . . . well, they'd be able to track those kinds of things, too. 

The knife slicing through his chest returned as he climbed back into the cab. God, it hurt, he thought as he panted, trying to control the pain. He showed the cab driver the LGM office's address, and they were off again. 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

"Thank God we thought to exchange apartment keys," Scully muttered as she let herself into Mulder's apartment, unknowingly echoing his sentiment of earlier. 

"Shouldn't we knock first?" Skinner asked. It was very likely that Mulder was in there, and he might not appreciate their breaking in. 

"If he's in there, from what you told me of his condition, he's probably asleep. No need to disturb his healing process - God knows he needs it." 

"Speaking of healing," Skinner said as they walked through the entranceway. "You look like you're about ready to drop yourself. Are you sure you don't want to just sit and rest for a few minutes?" 

"I will, but not until I know Mulder is safe." She knew that it would be so easy to sleep right now. Not just rest or nap, but eight hours of uninterrupted bliss. However, this was more important to her life than mere sleep. Hell, this <was> her life. 

She went directly to the couch, but he wasn't there, and the apartment was devoid of sound. Even the sibilance of his soft breathing if he'd been asleep. 

"He's not here," she said with great sadness. 

"No, but maybe he was. Why don't you sit, while I look around." 

She nodded tiredly, carefully lowering herself to the soft leather. She'd so hoped to find him here. 

Against her better judgment, she closed her eyes, listening to the sounds as Skinner made his way around the apartment. She realized she'd almost dozed off when she was suddenly startled awake. 

"Well, he was definitely here," Skinner said. 

"How do you know?" 

"Well, unless he's taken to wearing hospital scrubs in his off time . . ." He held up the pants and shirt. "They were in a pile in the bathroom. His closet door and two drawers in his dresser were left open. 

"He was in a hurry," Scully said, then felt her face fall. "Or he was too tired and weak to bother closing them." 

"I'm afraid the latter is more likely." 

"Let me see. . ." Scully held out her hand, waiting for Skinner to place the clothes in it. Once he did, she immediately began to search them, although she wasn't sure for what. 

Her instincts were good, though. "Oh, God . . ." She turned the shirt inside out, showing Skinner the small red stain on the inside torso. 

"He's bleeding," he said, although it was hardly necessary. 

"All the activity . . . He could have pulled some stitches. Overtaxed himself." Turning beseeching eyes to her boss, she repeated what she'd been saying all along. "We <have> to find him." 

"We will, Scully." He offered her a hand in rising, which she found she needed more than she realized. 

As she locked up the apartment, he asked, "where to now?" 

"My place. I'm sure he took an address book or something with him, and that's sure to be his next stop." 

"Very well. To your place it is." 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

The area of town where the Gunmen had their office was, to say the least, decrepit. Not the best neighborhood, but the rent was cheap, and that was what counted. And the Lone Gunmen had enough security to keep them protected even in the middle of Harlem, Mulder thought as the cabby pulled to a stop. 

"Are you sure this is where you want to go?" he asked. 

Mulder nodded his head, pointing to the alley that would lead to the Gunmen's door. 

"Okay, if you insist," the driver said, shaking his head. He watched as his charge exited the cab stiffly and painfully. It was obvious the guy wasn't doing all that well. He was likely to drop at any minute, so he kept his eyes on him. His walk was slow and measured, each step obviously difficult. 

He just blinked for a moment and glanced down at the meter, wondering if the guy really had this much cash on him. He seemed honest, at least, and since he was hurt . . . 

There was an audible thump, drawing his look back towards his passenger, only to see two thugs standing over him. At least he was sitting up on his own. 

"Give us your wallet!" Creep #1 demanded, to which Mulder shook his head. 

"Dammit, don't be smart. Give it to us now!" said Creep #2, drawing back a foot and kicking the passenger in the stomach. "Think we're too stupid to recognize designer clothes? You've gotta have some bucks on you." 

The man, Mulder, rolled in pain, but only the driver knew that he wasn't capable of answering his attackers. 

Reaching under the seat, he whispered to himself. "Never had to use this before, but I guess there's a first time for everything." He withdrew a small pistol, carefully opening the door so as not to create undue noise. 

"Get away from him or I'll shoot ya!" he screamed, bringing the weapon to bear on the two thugs. 

"Oh, give me a break!" one of the attackers grumbled. 

"I'm an ex-Marine, and I know exactly how to use this. Now get lost, or get dead!" 

They seemed to believe his story, putting their hands up and leaving the alley with alacrity. 

"Hey, are you okay?" the cabby said, kneeling down beside the man. He was conscious, but obviously in agony. 

After gasping for a minute or so, the man turned bright eyes to him. 

The question, "Better?" got him an affirmative nod, so he stretched out his hand. "Help you up?" 

The kind voice broke through the haze that had enveloped Mulder at the first kick. This, for some reason, was a person he could trust. Reaching up, he took the hand the man offered, using every ounce of his energy to regain his feet. 

He was assisted back to the cab. 

"I'd better get you to the hospital," the cab driver said, but Mulder shook his head no. Pointing to the address on his license again, he insisted. He just wanted to go home. 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

"He's not here, either," Scully sighed as she returned to Skinner, who still stood in her doorway. 

"I was sure he would have come here next." The conundrum puzzled Skinner, as Mulder usually did. 

"I think he did come here, Sir," she said. "We just missed him." 

"How do you know?" 

"I just know. Doors not quite how I leave them, things moved. . . Somebody was here, and I'm betting that it was him." 

"So, where do you think he'd go from here?" 

She thought for a fraction of a minute, her eyes on the ceiling. "The Bureau, maybe. Possibly the Lone Gunmen's office." 

"That makes sense, but he'd also know that he'd never get past security at the office in his condition. Besides, I already called them to be on the lookout, and to contact me if he showed up there." 

"So that leaves the Gunmen. I'll give them a call." 

Skinner used her bathroom while she made the call. 

"Lone Gunmen." 

"Langley, it's Scully." 

She heard the click that indicated he shut off, the tape - a courtesy they always afforded them - and then he was back on the line. 

"Hey, welcome back, Agent Scully! What's up? Frohike will be sorry he missed your call." 

"At the moment, I'm looking for Mulder. Have you seen him today?" 

"He isn't in the hospital?" Langley sounded genuinely surprised, and she felt her heart drop. She knew before he said it that he hadn't made it as far as the Gunmen's office. "Have you checked his apartment?" 

"Yes, he'd been there, but had come and gone. He's in no shape to be running around the countryside," she said with great concern. If something happened to Mulder . . . 

"Agent Scully, you may not realize this, but Mulder wouldn't care if he killed himself while looking for you. You matter to him more than you know." 

The words coming from the usually-flippant man felt more out of place than she could say. "I know, Langley. I know." She tried to repress the catch in her voice, blinking away the tears she felt forming in her eyes. Clearing her throat, she said, "let me know if you hear anything, okay?" 

"Will do, Agent Scully. We'll get on it." 

"Thank you." 

Just as she hung up the phone, Skinner emerged. He stood before her uncomfortably, making her wonder if he'd delayed coming out of the bathroom until she could collect herself. Unfortunately, the only thing that was going to help would be finding Mulder, safe and sound. 

The feeling of helplessness washed over her, and suddenly, there were tears streaming down her face again. As much as she tried to hold them in, they only got worse, and each attempt to regain control only resulted in great sobs that shook her entire frame. 

She nearly didn't realize when AD Skinner sat down beside her, putting a strong arm around her shoulders and pulling her into his arms. She cried against his chest until the exhaustion overtook her, finally pulling away as she wiped her face. 

"I'm sorry, Sir." 

"Don't be sorry, Scully. Most of us search a lifetime for the kind of love you two share. There's no shame in being afraid of losing that." 

She looked at him as if he were a stranger. "You knew?" 

"You've hardly been one to wear your heart on your sleeve, Dana. And Mulder, while not as good at it, has never let it affect his work performance, but yes. It's obvious to everybody who knows you." 

"I never told him," she whispered. "That's what started this whole mess." 

"How do you mean?" 

"Mulder told me. He finally had the courage to say it . . . but I lacked the courage to reciprocate. I told him that he was just a friend to me. Nothing more." 

"It's not your fault, Scully. You were scared." 

"I was a coward. And in being so, I hurt Mulder deeply." 

"You'll make up for it when we find him." 

"How can I make up for this? The only reason he got shot was because he was upset over what I'd said. How can I expect him to forgive me for that?" The tears still came, but the sobbing had stopped. 

"If you think that anything you could do could stop Mulder from loving you, you don't know him as well as you think. He's lost too many people in his life to give up on you now." 

"I hope so," she said, wiping her face. "But first, we have to find him." 

"If he didn't already know that your mother was out of town, I'd say he'd go there next. But since he did know, I'm at a loss . . ." 

"Let's go back to his place. He's got to go back there eventually when he doesn't find me anywhere else." Her eyes met those of her boss', strong and supportive. "Presuming he's able." 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

By the time Mulder made it back to his door, his knees were shaking with weakness. The driver, who'd been kind enough to see him home, had nearly insisted on taking him to the hospital, but Mulder had made it clear that he wasn't going anywhere but upstairs to his own couch. 

He hurt. Every inch of his body screamed out in pain. Those areas that weren't actually hurt by the gunshot wounds or the beating he'd taken were affected by a traveling agony that radiated out from those places. 

And not only that. The weakness that was overtaking his body felt more intense than any he'd ever experienced. It wasn't just his injury that was doing this, but something else. For the first time since leaving the hospital, Mulder truly worried about whether he'd be able to do this. But then, if he couldn't find Scully, was life worth living at all? 

Letting himself into the apartment, he moved to the couch slowly and carefully. Sitting down, as welcome as it was, sent a bolt of lightning through his chest, and he gasped, trying to catch his breath. If only Scully were here . . . She'd make it better. 

Finally, he was able to sit back and relax; his body would let him do nothing else. Closing his eyes, he prayed that, when he opened them again, Scully would be there. As a partner, or as a friend. He couldn't live without her in his life in some way, and he'd take her however he could have her. 

He rested and floated, but knew he couldn't afford to fall asleep. Too much remained to be done. But he was so very, very tired. . . 

Jerking himself awake some time later, he noted how cold it was in the room. Perhaps he'd left a window open somewhere, but he didn't care to go looking for it. Besides, there was a blanket on the couch he could use . . . 

Reaching for the blanket, his vision encompassed his hands and arms. But they looked strange. Discolored. He'd seen this type of coloring before. 

With a detached eye, he looked down at himself. The color variation on his shirt was distinct. Withdrawing his hands, he began to unbutton his shirt, pulling apart moist cloth. His slowed brain process finally let him figure out what was going on. He was bleeding. Badly. 

Dammit. As much as he hated going to the hospital, he knew now that he needed help. That last attack in the alley had done some damage that he couldn't get over without medical assistance. 

He made an attempt to stand, but didn't even clear the surface of the couch before he dropped back down again. Since he'd arrived home, he'd lost the strength to even rise; he needed help, and he needed it now. Bleeding to death alone in his apartment was not the way he wanted his life to end. 

The handset of his cordless phone felt like it weighed a thousand pounds as he hefted it from its spot on the coffee table. Normally, he'd call Scully in such a situation, but it wasn't an option this time. Perhaps even Skinner was a possibility, but now that he realized what was happening, his strength was seeping away faster than the blood from his body. He needed help, and 911 was only three digits. 

Three digits that he couldn't seem to dial. His anger at his own inability crested when he realized that, while the numbers were clear in his head, he couldn't get his fingers to dial them. God, how ironic, he thought . . . Fox Mulder, Oxford University grad and verified genius, was going to die in his own apartment with a perfectly good telephone in his hands because he couldn't dial a simple three-digit number. 

Feeling himself sinking back, he felt like he was drowning . . . being pulled under the current of a raging river while something that had him by the ankles drew him into its icy depths. He prayed that Scully, wherever she was, was safe, and that she forgave him for what he'd done to their relationship and for leaving before they were done with their work. 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

Through a haze, Mulder could hear somebody calling his name . . . a familiar and beloved voice, but that was all he could hear. The tone, and his own name, but his oxygen-starved brain was unable to interpret all the words themselves. Then, two words rang out, loud and clear: "Hold on!" 

He tried . . . he tried so very hard. But there was nothing left to grasp onto as he floated away, nothing to allow him to gain purchase, keeping him in this world. He couldn't even feel anything anymore, and he wished, prayed, and entreated to have some kind of human contact just once more. 

Somebody was apparently listening, because, suddenly, some of his senses returned. Pressure on his chest hurt unmercifully, but he was no longer capable of crying out. A sharp sting on his arm, and then on his neck as well, like hornets attacking en masse. Something was covering his nose and mouth, stifling, until, suddenly, the tightness in his chest eased. He could hear a bit better, now. 

"Mulder, come on. Please, Mulder. Fight it." 

That was Scully's voice, no doubt about it. Thank God . . . she was okay. Her voice was strong and sure, if worried. 

"Excuse me, Miss. We need to get moving." 

He felt large hands lift him, moving him gently onto another flat surface. He was beginning to think he'd make it through this, when the mask stopped working. He couldn't breath. As much as he tried, his chest grew tight again, and he felt like he was choking. 

As the blackness closed around him, he only hoped that, for all the complaining he did about it, medical science could bring him back. 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

"He's crashing on us!" one of the EMT's said to his partner. "Get me an endotrachial tube and an ambu bag. Set the fluids to full open." 

"Got it," his partner said. Scully watched as they tipped Mulder's head back, inserting the tube in his throat to force him to breathe while the fluids in the bag flowed into the jugular stick in his neck that had been necessary. He'd lost so much blood, they couldn't raise a vein in his arm, necessitating the very difficult last-resort form of IV. 

"Mulder, you're not getting away this easily," she said, standing at his feet where she wouldn't interfere with his treatment. 

"Pulse is faint, but still there." 

"Tube's in. Let's move him before this gets any worse!" 

They rushed Mulder out of his apartment as quickly as was practical, yet she found herself impatient, wishing that the antiquated elevator in his building would move faster just this one time. Every second counted, and she knew it. 

She didn't realize that she'd moved to join him in the back of the ambulance until one of the paramedics put up a hand. 

"Sorry, it's going to be too tight back there." 

"I'm a doctor." That argument usually worked when Mulder was hurt, but not this time. 

"I understand that, ma'am, but I'm sure you want your partner's life to take priority." 

"C'mon, Scully," Skinner said, taking her by the arm. "We'll follow them in, but we're going to lose them if we don't get into the car." 

Docilely, she moved to the passenger side, only once she was seated inside realizing that, once again, she was covered in Mulder's blood. Fingering the cross at her neck, she kept up a litany of silent prayers the entire way to the hospital, asking her God to save her partner one more time. For all the times she'd told Him that she and Mulder had unfinished business, today, it was ten times as true as anytime in the past. 

She looked on with horrified eyes when she saw them unloading him. They were performing CPR, their faces grim, as doctors and nurses swarmed over them. From her place in the car, she knew she'd never get to him before they whisked him away into a treatment room or surgical bay. 

"Please," she whispered. "Please don't leave me again." 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

Too many hours passed too slowly, yet she was grateful that they did - at least Mulder was hanging in there. 

"Scully, why don't you lie down," Skinner suggested. The waiting room was empty, and she could have easily stretched out over several chairs. 

"I'm all right." 

"No, you're not, Dana. Look, I can see you're exhausted. I promise, I'll wake you as soon as they come out with some news." 

"Maybe later . . ." was her only response. Somehow, she felt that if she sat there, thinking about him, talking <to> him in her head, it would help him find the strength to fight his way back. 

She stared into space, realizing how worried Skinner was about her, until finally, they were joined by another person. 

"Agent Scully. . . Mr. Skinner. . . I was told you're here with Fox Mulder?" 

"Yes!" Scully exclaimed, standing to meet the man. "How is he, Doctor?" 

"Well, all I can say is, he's got a hell of a will to live. We had to bring him back twice on the table, but he hung in there while we stopped the bleeding and repaired the prior wounds, which had opened up again. We gave him five units of blood and he's got another one hanging now. All in all, he's much more stable. We were able to move the IV from his neck to his arm, and we've settled him in ICU for the time being." 

"So he's going to be all right?" Skinner asked. 

"Well, we don't know for sure yet, but I'd say he's got at least a fifty-fifty chance. The recuperation is going to be extremely slow, one injury coming on the coattails of the other, but if he keeps fighting the way he has these last few hours, I'd say we can improve those odds a little bit each day." 

"What about oxygen deprivation?" Scully asked. 

"We had his records sent over from the other hospital, and while he wasn't without oxygen long enough to suffer any additional brain damage, if he makes it, he'll still have to deal with the aphasia. As I said, Agent Scully, it's going to be a tough recovery." The surgeon smiled at her. "But, somehow, I think that he's going to have all the help he needs." 

Scully smiled and blushed, nodding. "Can I sit with him?" 

"Absolutely. Talking to him would help, too. Just go on through to ICU and the nurse on duty will direct you." 

"Thank you," she sighed, relieved to at least be able to see him again. "Thank you very much." 

The scene was one she figured she should be used to by now - she was certainly faced by it often enough. But never quite so seriously. 

Mulder lay in the ICU bed, hooked up to more machines than she would have thought possible if she hadn't been a doctor and known exactly what each piece of equipment's purpose was. Monitors, leads, IV, catheter, and she was concerned to note he was still on a ventilator, but they wouldn't have him on it if it wasn't necessary. Hopefully, they'd be able to remove it before he awoke for the first time. 

It had been so close . . . I can't deal with losing him again, she thought, remembering how pointless her life had seemed the first time she'd thought him dead. But that was years ago, and many layers of relationship had developed since then. 

Taking a seat in the chair, she sighed again, taking his hand. "I'm here, Mulder, and I'm not going anywhere until you wake up and show me those beautiful hazel eyes. But don't make me wait long, okay?" 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

At three hours after surgery, the nurses finally convinced Scully to eat the sandwich, carrot sticks, and coffee they brought her. 

At six hours after surgery, she lay her exhausted head down on the bed beside Mulder for "just a second to rest her eyes" and ended up asleep. 

At nine hours after surgery, she was awake again, and frantic that she'd missed something while she slumbered. Thankfully, all that was different was that they had pulled out the ventilator. 

At twelve hours after the surgery, after swearing to stay awake, her patience was rewarded with a sliver of hazel and white. 

"I'm here, Mulder. You're going to be okay, just relax." 

The eyes widened, the question in them clear. 

"No, you're not dreaming. I'm here, Mulder. And I'm not going anywhere." 

His forehead crinkled, most likely because he realized that he couldn't say anything back. 

"I understand you can't say anything right now, but we'll work on it when you're stronger. For now, why don't you rest. I'll tell the doctor you've awakened, and before you know it, they'll have you moved into a regular room where you can watch all the ESPN you want and drive the nurses crazy." She hesitated, unsure whether he'd remember this later, but she'd repeat it as many times as she had to. 

"I love you, Mulder. I'm sorry it took this for me to realize it." 

Smiling weakly, he nodded his head, drifting off. Just before he succumbed to the darkness, his lips moved, surprising her immensely. "Scully." 

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

Four weeks later, Mulder walked out of the hospital under his own power. The air was warm, the sun was bright, and despite residual weakness, he was beyond happy to be alive and in the world again. 

Standing outside the doors, he stopped, tipping his head back to absorb the sun. 

"C'mon, Mulder, you're holding up traffic on the sidewalk," Scully said from her place beside him. "It's not like I haven't taken you outside in the hospital gardens every day for the past week." Her smile was as bright as the sun, matching his heart. 

"Home?" 

"Yep, that's where we're headed. Bet it's going to feel strange after so long." 

"Feed fish?" 

"Yes, I've been feeding your fish. But I'm going to stop if you don't work a bit harder at talking in complete sentences, buddy. I don't expect the man I love to be lazy." 

"W-w-will you s-s-stay?" He hesitated a moment. "P-p-p-please?" 

"I'll tell you what," she said, wrapping her arms gently around his middle. "I'll stay for dinner, and if you behave and keep working on your speech, <maybe> you'll convince me to spend the night." 

"The anssssssswer to my prayers," Mulder said, kissing her softly on the lips. 

"Don't get so cocky," she said when he released her. "I don't think you're ready to do much more than sleep for a week or so quite yet." 

"I'll surprise y-y-you, Scully, j-j-just wait." 

"How about surprising me by making it to the car first. Then we'll see how it goes." 

"Okay," he said, following her to the car. "Scully?" 

"Yes?" 

"There is always the b-b-b-b-back seat." 

"Mulder!" 

The End   
  


#### If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Mary Kleinsmith


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